


at st. patrick's purgatory

by miribees



Series: liminal conversations [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, M/M, POV Original Character, POV Outsider, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Queer Themes, Slice of Life, Vignette, but it's not discussed overtly it's just how i wrote him being, i also wrote this in a 4-5 hour burst and haven't beta'd it but you know what we're doing this now, i've gotten very invested in this oc he's gay and trans and a nerd, we're doin it live babey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-10 10:07:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20133694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miribees/pseuds/miribees
Summary: The mysterious Mr. Fell seems to have an odd habit of showing up in people's lives at random, giving a bit of advice that you didn't know you needed to hear, and then he'd be right back in his closed-up shop while you just had your whole life turned upside-down.





	at st. patrick's purgatory

**Author's Note:**

> http://8tracks.com/musicalmiri/see-you-space-cowboy looking for fresh new wave n disco jams to think about your favourite angel to? look no further!

Samuel wasn't a regular in Soho. In fact, if you asked him to find "Soho" on a map, he would point to the one in Manhattan. 

He knew travelling alone was dangerous, but the expense of an extra plane ticket to London for the sake of moral support simply wasn't possible. So his mother saw him off at the Calgary airport and assured him she would be "giving him all their love, and Gran's knitting group will all be praying for you!"

He wished he could feel those prayers, but stumbling down the conservatory halls and pushing out the doors past the well-meaning university volunteers he could only feel that he had fucked everything up, tremendously. He walked back to his hotel in a daze and shed his formal suit, shoving it into it's protective hanger and then back into his suitcase with disgust. At least he still had a day and a half in London before flying back to Canada and waiting weeks upon weeks for one of many emails.

According to the internet, Soho was one of those neighborhoods one simply had to visit for an authentic London experience, and there was one shop he had noticed there that piqued his specific interest. But walking to it now, he couldn't help but feel foolish. He heard it was an absurd little place where one could find just about any buried gem, any diamond in the rough that they desired from the bottom of their heart. He wasn't sure what he wanted anymore, but his feet carried him there regardless. Just for the novelty, perhaps, and then he'd wander some more, buy a souvenir, accomplish an acceptable level of shit-faced at some low-key bar, and catch his plane tomorrow evening. Tomorrow he'd be home, and his mom and gran would want to hear all about the fancy London school. He's already sent a message saying he'd done well, and that they'd be proud. He didn't say anything more to them, guilt beginning to eat his insides as he let his thoughts drift back to his afternoon. He could feel the ghost of every bead of sweat that had gathered in his hair as he stammered lamely under the adjudicators questioning, could see the disinterest behind their eyes, could hear-

\- a bell ringing?

Samuel blinked, and reassessed his surroundings. He had just been walking down the narrow street and indulging in a little bit of overthinking, and now he was on the other side of a gently settling door in a veritable emporium dedicated to various shades of creams and browns. Everywhere he looked there was a bookshelf covered with muted spines, piles of papers, well-polished wood surfaces, tartan rugs, and his eyes swept up to a slightly raised desk set beside a railing that looked like it may lead to an apartment...

"We are most decidedly closed!" Samuel's eyes nearly skipped right past the man actually _sitting_ at the desk, his white and tan suit and mess of nearly-white curls almost blending into the surrounding tones, until the cold, prim male voice broke the air.

"You heard the man, shop's _closed._" Another, rougher voice followed immediately, not giving him a chance to respond in the interim. A man with shocking red hair and dark glasses had materialized out of seemingly thin air and was sitting on the edge of desk, glowering down. Samuel took about a second to try and figure out what the difference in accent was -upon finalizing his trip across the pond he became afraid of mixing up Irish and Scottish to the point of irrational phobia. He had heard they were sensitive about that sort of thing. But, like being afraid you'll throw your phone out the car window, it was a situation that he reminded himself he was totally in control of. Literally just don't say anything. Now he was thinking about his own voice. He suddenly remembered he had been addressed.

"I... honestly didn't mean to intrude. The door was open, I guess, and I just... walked through?" The answer felt weak, and he cringed at the sound of it.

"The door was open, was it, dear?" The blond one turned to his companion, who reacted by flinging himself off the desk and sauntering towards the offending patron.

"Don't look at me! Fuck, I'll take care of it." He scowled over his shoulder before leaning in to examine Samuel behind the sunglasses, leaving him feeling almost like prey under some unseen threat.

"There's no need to _scare_ him!” The blond one followed his partner _(?)_ quickly, and with both of them in front of him Samuel had a second to marvel at how truly strange they looked.

The blonde one in the waistcoat looked like an alien had been allowed to pick exactly 3 piece of media by which he would learn how to fit in with Earthlings, and they had been _The Complete __Sherlock Holmes_, _Pride and Prejudice _(the one with Kiera Knightley), and _A __Muppet's Christmas Carol._ The skinny redhead had the look of a retired rockstar, one who'd been the frontman in a world-famous band for 20 years, at least half of which were spent doing speed, having sordid affairs, and fighting with his bandmates before giving it all up to retire to a quaint bookshop with his husband. Or who he figured was his husband.

He realized the men were addressing him again.

"Your _name__!_" The redhead scowled, and Samuel jumped.

"Samuel. As in Barber, or, y'know, the bible." He blurted out.

The professor gave an approving nod. 

"Picked it out myself, a custom job." He continued. That was both his icebreaker and a time-honoured way to test the waters. 

The lanky rocker laughed warmly at that, and Samuel relaxed a little more.

"Angel, I like this kid's style."

"You were about to bite his head off a second ago, dear. Samuel, would you care for tea?"

"Sorry, uhhhh..." Samuel flapped his jaw, slightly stupefied, before he remembered the reason he was here. "Is this A.Z Fell and Co.? The bookstore?"

The professor sniffed at that, but didn't seem overly put out as he answered, 

"Yes."

"And you're... Mr. Fell?"

"You could call me that, yes."

"And you're closed." Samuel spoke slowly, still trepidatious. 

"For Satan's sake, kid, try to keep up!" The rocker shouted from where he had turned and begun marching towards the back of the store.

"It's... 3:30?" Samuel offered weakly, not even sure why he was pointing it out. It's not his business how they run their shop, after all.

"Perfect time for tea, don't you think? Oh, unless you prefer cocoa. You can tell us what brings you here." Mr. Fell smiled. The question was pointed, but not unfriendly. More bemused and cordial than anything, as if a great novelty had stumbled through his doors instead of a gangly, nervous, Canadian 20-something.

"... Sure."

The redhead had quickly returned from the back with a tray of steaming mugs, much to Samuel's quiet amusement at the contrast of the man's sheer 'tude versus the display of domesticity. He also felt a twinge of guilt- with how quickly the piping-hot tea had been prepared they must have already been getting ready to sit down together and he'd just barged right in. 

Well. In for a penny, in for a pound.

He sat stiffly where Mr. Fell offered him a chair, and the redhead -who he learned was named Crowley, a painfully cool name if you asked him- sprawled at an unnatural angle, expensive looking leather boots rocking the edge of the table precariously.

"Well, what brings an American student to London nowadays?" Mr. Fell started the conversation, seemingly not burdened by the awkwardness of silence.

"Canadian." Samuel said automatically.

"Yeah, for Christ's sake, angel, the kid's Canadian." Crowley sneered, placing his mug so perilously on the edge of the table that it had to be deliberate. Mr. Fell didn't blink at it, and Samuel wondered again at their odd-coupleness.

"I'm from Alberta, I know we sound pretty rural- wait, how did you know I was a student?" 

"Educated guess, dear boy." Mr. Fell sipped his tea, and Samuel suddenly remembered his own untouched cup of tea and took a tentative sip. The perfect temperature. He hardly took a moment to wonder about it before taking a deeper sip, feeling a warm calm run through him.

"I was just looking for music books. Y'know, old stuff. I just figured- I just thought it may be fun to look at. Old shop. Old sheet music." He held his mug in front of his face, letting the steam hit his glasses as he watched for a reaction.

"You came all the way to London for old music books." Crowley drawled, looking thoroughly unimpressed. Mr. Fell, beside him, looked as if he didn't know whether to be impressed or annoyed.

"No, no!" Samuel quickly explained, taking one hand off his mug to gesture hurriedly. "I was here for..." He trailed off, suddenly feeling tight in his chest again as he recalled the morning's events.

"Take your time." said Mr. Fell, taking another leisurely sip. Samuel felt... oddly comforted, and he did just that. After a moment of fidgeting and thinking, he began to speak with a tumbling cantor. 

"My teacher did her masters degree here, and she still has a lot of old friends here, and she thought I had the potential for London, or New York, or Montreal even, but I was really drawn here because, you know, I really admire her, and she actually lives here most of the year, and I never thought I would get this kind of opportunity, but now I'm not so sure. I think I can’t do it, I think I messed it all up." His leg was jumping now, and his hand was unsuccessfully trying to hold it down, and in fact it only seemed to make the shaking worse.

Crowley raised his eyebrows and tilted his head at Mr. Fell, and Mr. Fell nodded with seeming understanding at the gesture. Setting down his mug, he left the room with a swift "Do pardon me, just a moment" and Samuel was left with a redheaded pile of tightly contorted black-clad limbs in an antique-looking chair. Somehow maneuvering an arm to pick up his mug and sip it without spilling, Crowley seemed content not to say anything.

"Are you Irish or something?" Blurted Samuel. Shit. Crowley gave a bark of laughter, still somehow not spilling his mug of tea.

"Haven't been there since the days of Saint Patrick. So no, I wouldn't say so." He gave a sharp grin, and Samuel imagined for a moment that he saw a forked tongue flick out. But it was just his imagination, of course.

"Here we are!" Mr. Fell came shuffling back in with 2 tins of biscuits, which he sat in the middle of the table.

"Do they have gluten?" Samuel asked, his hand just barely reaching out towards the tin before he remembered to ask.

"Of course not." Mr. Fell took a biscuit for himself and gave it a dunk in his tea.

"Lucky me." Samuel took one, copying the tea-dunking before stuffing the entire thing in his mouth.

"Do you not want to do music anymore, dear boy?" Mr. Fell said softly, nibbling his own biscuit.

Samuel swallowed quickly. "I do, I want to go to school here and be with my teacher here more than anything." He spared a moment to wonder how he ended up in an impromptu therapy tea session with two radically incompatible Brits in the weirdest bookshop he'd ever seen before deciding that, at this point, he may as well be honest. "I'm just not very good. Or I didn't do good. At my audition. The biggest opportunity of my life. I did rather terrible. They hated me." His shoulders slumped and he grabbed another biscuit.

"I'm sure they didn't hate you. What do you sing?"

"Countertenor. It's like, a male alto. Wait, I could play the trumpet for all you know." His face scrunched up in confusion, to which Mr. Fell waved a hand.

"I simply _knew_ there was something special about you. Not enough young people appreciate the opera nowadays, let alone are capable enough to sing it." He said it as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, and Samuel sat stunned for a moment. 

"I've always loved the opera." He said softly.

"Don't get him started." Crowley groaned, but didn't seem to hold any true malice. In fact, Mr. Fell beamed at his words.

"Who's your favourite to sing, Samuel?" 

"I love oratorio; y'know, 'Opera for Jesus'-" Crowley snorted at that, but Mr. Fell leaned forward in interest. "- and I really like Mozart of course, and English opera, which people seem to think is a contradiction but there were some really prolific English operatic composers, of course. Like Barber, I named myself after the guy. He was so multitalented, he could sing and play piano and write for chorus’s and orchestra’s and compose art songs and direct operas. His unconventional use of time signatures to faithfully preserve the tone of like, 800 year old Irish poetry is fucking _incredible_. And the phonetics of sung English are like a whole other language and the music is so different just based on like, the cultures of the time, it's so hard but _so_ rewarding, but I've been studying Italian pretty seriously for a few years now, and-"

Samuel didn't keep track of how long he and Mr. Fell talked, but it was time enough for Crowley to slink away, professing his boredom but still hovering on a nearby sofa.

Mr. Fell was finishing his second cup of tea by the time the conversation lulled, and Samuel had demolished more biscuits than was probably polite but Mr. Fell didn't seem to mind at all. It was like no time at all had passed, but when Samuel looked out the window it was noticeably darker out than when he'd arrived.

"I'm very grateful for your time, Mr. Fell, but I should get going. So much London to see, and I don't know if I'll be coming back." He tried not to let his anxiety slip back into his speech, but he knew himself well enough to understand that he'd go right back to worrying as soon as he was back on the street, as if whatever shelter Mr. Fell provided would shatter in the open air.

"You’ll come back if you want what can be found here." The words were said with such sincerity, such certainty that Samuel nearly stumbled over his own feet on the way to the door. "And the old music director just has that sort of face, a mean face, but he wasn't angry or disgusted at you. Make sure to drop a line to your teacher sometime, you were supposed to give her a call as soon as you could. I know she's just dying to hear from you, and you have such good news of your accomplishments to share, don't you?" He beamed knowingly, and Samuel found himself temporarily blinded (in a metaphorical sense) by a wave of confidence and peace. It was similar to when he sat and prayed about something that was really bothering him and actually felt _heard._ He hesitated at the door, not wanting to step out of that feeling. He looked back at Mr. Fell.

"Did you really think there was something special about me?"

"Of course." Mr. Fell replied, the very picture of innocence, or perhaps a cherub that decided to grow up and collect books and marry a rockstar.

"Well," said Samuel, a fire in his soul present that hadn't been for a while, "perhaps I _will_ be coming back to London after all. Maybe." He laughed a little at what was, for him, an unprecedented show of confidence. "I feel better. Thank you, Mr. Fell. Really sorry I didn't buy anything though, I took up an awful lot of your time-"

"Consider this on the house, then. Please absolutely do not attempt to buy something." A manila envelope that he hadn't noticed before was thrust into his arms, and Samuel made to protest before he was gently deposited on the front stoop, and looked back to catch a last glimpse at the cozy interior behind the almost glowing Mr. Fell. 

"Thank you again, Mr. Fell, and please thank your husband for me too." He gave a smile and an awkward bow, not sure if it was the right amount of formal or not for such a formal man like Mr. Fell, before practically dashing back up the street with renewed vigor as the door closed behind him.

He ran all the way back to his hotel, winded and immediately flopping down on his bed as his mind raced in an attempt to process what just happened. He stayed there until he almost dozed off, at which point he shook himself back awake and reached instead for the manila envelope. Flicking it open, he looked inside eagerly and hummed at the contents.

"First edition, huh?" He said, pulling it carefully out and examining the cover. _Hermit Songs._ A very good choice, and he'd needed this set for his collection. Taking a moment to open the cover and check the typeset, what he saw had the book dropping from his hands and he scrambled to catch it before the pages could be crushed against the floor. Lifting it up closer to inspect it again, he was certain.

Samuel Barber had signed this book. 

Putting it carefully back inside the manila envelope, Samuel laid down on his back with the envelope hugged tenderly to his chest, staring at the ceiling. 

_I think I just met a real life Angel_

**Author's Note:**

> about crowley’s accent- you can pry vaguely scottish crowley from my cold dead hands.  
this was inspired by the very strange old people who, on two separate occasions recently, have approached me and said exactly what i needed to hear before disappearing again. i'm the furthest thing from a believer but it really did get me thinking about angels.  
i'll make literally anything about opera and i am only a tiny bit embarrassed. but one thing in g.o fic is how some of us are nerds for dancing, or for obscure botany, or community theatre, or for astronomy or any other weird niche thing and bc the source material is so flexible to work with, we can write whole fics about them and subject the husbands to our historical obsessions within the bounds of canon. does that make sense? it does to me and i love everyone's weird interesting fic topics


End file.
